


Love and Other Four Letter Words

by DaisyIfYouHave



Series: Overgays universe [5]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 12:57:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11059446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyIfYouHave/pseuds/DaisyIfYouHave
Summary: Pharah does not always know how to say the things she longs to say the most. Takes place before the recall of Overwatch.





	Love and Other Four Letter Words

Pharah had many gifts. Her commanders had often commented upon them, as she stood at attention in their offices. She was strong, and organized, and persistent. She was a natural leader, and cool under pressure, and resourceful. 

What had never been said of her, however, was that she had easy access to her emotions. 

In a moment of kindness, Pharah might have reminded herself that she was unaccustomed to this sort of thing, that to feel this way about anyone was new and unfamiliar, that Mercy was very sensitive and soft, but also very forgiving, and there was little that genuine apology and perhaps some flowers couldn’t fix. 

She was not currently having a moment of kindness. 

_“I love you.”_

_Mercy whispered it, in the warmth and the dark, her blonde hair falling delicately over Pharah’s shoulder, her lips gently brushing across her shoulderblade._

_And, like a private at her first battle, the bullet had whizzed past Pharah’s ear, and she froze._

_Mercy felt her stiffen up, and moved away, the softness of her hair spilling off of Pharah’s shoulder, as the words caught in Pharah’s throat. The seconds passed too quickly, the warmth and intimacy of the room grew cool._

_“Angela, you are very--” She had commanded people to their almost-certain deaths, and this was where she got caught up, in three simple words she desperately longed to say. Pathetic, she would think later._

_Mercy threw her hair into a quick bun and shook her head, mumbling about how she had an early plane. “No, it’s all right, I don’t want you to say it because I did. It’s--it’s nothing.”_

_Pharah tried to reach to the soft part that lay inside of her heart, where Mercy laid most tenderly, but it was protected by the bramble of everything she’d ever been taught. A thorn where her mother told her to straighten up, that she was fine, that there was nothing to be upset about. The garden of points and angles she had grown to save herself, were keeping her from the thing she desired most._

_The thing she loved most._

But she said none of that, just stammered and tried to make excuses as Mercy put on her blouse and left, and she realized, in that moment, how stunningly empty the room was without Mercy in it, and how cold. 

She had trained herself to be quick and decisive in her responses, and all that training had suddenly failed her. More painfully, it had failed Mercy. 

Tracer often alluded to the fact that she and Pharah were ‘military brats,’ but it had been Pharah’s observation that what passed for Tracer’s definition of a militaristic raising, which seemed to be, ‘my father was in the RAF and I was forced to occasionally pick up my socks,’ had very little in common with Pharah’s lonely and regimented life, a life that had only driven she and her mother further apart, the older she got. 

And then suddenly, there was no chance of ever changing that. 

But Pharah was not in the business of blaming other people for her misgivings, and so it was only herself she sacrificed to the lash. 

Mercy answered her calls, and her texts--it was not in her to be cold, or to be cruel, but Pharah felt the distance from her, felt her hurt, and every soft drop of her voice was another blow to Pharah. 

It made her desperate. 

“Come again?” Tracer leaned forward across the cafeteria table. “I know I must have misheard you, because I thought you said you just let Mercy hang out there all alone with her feelings.” 

“That is--not inaccurate, I suppose.” Pharah picked at the uninspiring tomato dish in front of her. 

“Fareeeeeeeehhhhhhhhaaaaa.” Tracer banged her head against the table, her arm laid over her head. 

“I didn’t--” 

“FAREEEHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA.” She dramatically flopped off the table and onto the ground. 

“I regret literally every conversation I have with you.” She angrily drove the tines of her fork into an offending bean. “But I know you--you have dated--and been successful.” 

Tracer grinned brightly and bounced up onto her elbows. “Are you asking me for help, love?” 

“I have never believed ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ until this moment” 

Tracer rolled up to her feet and sat on the edge of the table. ‘What exactly is the common enemy here then, your inability to talk to women?” Her eyes grew wide and she leaned over Pharah’s plate. “Is Mercy your first girlfriend?!” 

Pharah stared hard into Tracer’s eyes, inches from their pure sparkling delight, and scowled. “I have been with plenty of women.” 

“Ah but,” Tracer withdrew quickly, sliding back into her seat in one swift motion, hands folded with amused delicacy in front of her, “you’re answering a question I didn’t ask. I asked,” she smiled brightly and stretched back, prolonging the glory of the moment, and then leaned forward again, punctuating each word with a poke to the back of Pharah’s hand. “If. Ang. Was. Your. First. Girlfriend.” 

Pharah smacked at her hand, and Tracer laughed, dodging the blow. Pharah stewed for a moment, and then continued, very quietly, avoiding Tracer’s gaze, hoping no one else in the mess hall was listening. ‘To say we are girlfriends is to make the way I feel about her...childish. It isn’t a game. I have never felt this way, and Mercy is special. She is very special. I do not know how to be this way. I was hoping you would know. I want to be..the way girls like. I want to tell her things she needs to hear. You don’t need to mock me for wanting that for her, not everything is a joke even if it is to you.” A blush rose to her cheeks. “I want to give her what she deserves.” 

“Fareeha.” She looked back up, and Tracer shrugged. “Why are you telling me?” 

__

Mercy sat on the couch, a carton of Indian takeout next to her, some show about home decoration on the TV, as she paged through a book, snuggled in her thick afghan and fuzzy slippers. It was cold in Massachusetts, and it seemed somehow more bitter than the cold she had known as child in Switzerland. But maybe that was the loneliness. 

Winston had asked her, over a few drinks at his house, what was bothering her. She should have told him, but it seemed too embarrassing, that she had, like always, fallen head over heels, and, of course, Pharah just felt casually about her, why shouldn’t she? They were stationed on opposite ends of the globe, their meetings were too brief and too spare. The Helix outpost could get lonely, and Mercy was a welcome distraction, yes, but…

“Angela, you always get yourself into these things.” She mumbled at herself in grumpy German, snuggling further down into the couch. 

The knock at the door surprised her, and she looked over at the clock. Eleven. Not that late, certainly--that she and Winston were both teaching made them rather boring, anymore--but still it gave her pause. 

She stood a few feet from the door, blanket still wrapped around her. “Who is it?” 

“Phara--er, Fareeha.” Her voice was still filled with spice and strength, and Mercy hated herself for swooning. Hopeless. 

Mercy tossed the afghan back onto the couch and checked her reflection in the mirror by the door. It wasn’t exactly how she might have planned it--her hair was up in a clip, makeup stripped off and thick-rimmed glasses on, standing there in a pink tank top and cardigan sweater. But she couldn’t exactly ask Pharah to wait outside while she freshened up, even as she tried to smooth a few stray wisps of hair. 

“Angela?” 

She suddenly remembered herself, and swung the door open. “Hello. I didn’t--I didn’t know you were--” 

Pharah gave a small nod, her eyebrows knitting into a rare embarrassment. “I should have called. This was rude of me.” She looked down at the small bouquet of flowers, picked up from a gas station on the way to Mercy’s apartment. “I apologize.” 

“No, no,” Mercy stepped out of the doorway. “Come in.” 

As she swept by, Mercy noticed her blue suit jacket, pulled over a neatly pressed button up shirt, and it only confused her more, to see Pharah dressed for something other than a tactical movement. 

Pharah turned around and stood at attention. “I have been...unchivalrous. I don’t have much experience with women, as Tracer will no doubt delight in reminding us all when she gets the chance.” 

Mercy gave a small laugh and touched the edge of the bouquet. “Are those for me?” 

“Oh, yes.” She brandished them at Mercy. “I know they are not much, but I wanted to bring something.” 

She shook her head. ‘They’re lovely, Fareeha.” She took them from her hands. “I’ll go get them some water.” She began to walk toward the kitchen, and Pharah grabbed her wrist. 

“I love you very much, Angela Ziegler.” 

The words seemed to scare both of them, and they froze for a moment, as if in a painting, dramatic colors dashed across the canvas, preserving one grand moment. 

Mercy looked at Pharah, so different from her general proud bearing, her eyes dark and pleading, her mouth gently parted, trying to say something else, as if there was anything else that could be said. 

And yet somehow, she did. 

“That is a not thing I have said much, or had said to me. Ever, maybe. I don’t know. I want to say it to you, because I feel it. I was--” she stumbled. “I was scared. Loving someone,” she twisted a bit, that beautiful, terrible four letter word coming out of her mouth so many times, “Loving someone is to give them a weapon. To hurt you.” She looked at the ground and patted Mercy’s hand, suddenly aware of how tightly she was gripping her, “Or it has always seemed that way to me. But I love you more than I am afraid. I don’t think you will hurt me.” She nodded. “I understand, though, if you’d rather have someone else. I will never be a poet. I will never be able to tell you things the way you deserve to hear them. But for you I will try. And I will show you. Every day.” She held her hands behind her back, in her general military position, and gave a sharp nod, as if she had finished explaining to her superior officer her error in judgement on the battlefield. 

Mercy wiped at the tears in her eyes. “Fareeha...” 

“Please. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

She tossed the flowers onto the couch and wrapped her arms around Pharah, tucking her head beneath Pharah’s chin. “You are exactly what I want I want.” 

Pharah held her tightly, Mercy’s body against her a warm infusion of strength. ‘I love you, Angela.” The words were already growing more familiar in her mouth, the taste of them exciting and bright. 

“I love you, Fareeha.”


End file.
